Survival of the Fittest

I act too rashly sometimes. Vanessa knows. Even the kids do, and they try to stop me from doing stupid things because of this. But they need to be in the room or else I'm free to do stupid things.

Me: (Into phone) Please deliver a personal pan pizza with everything on it.
Pizza Hut: We have a buy two, get one free offer.
Me: I'll take ten.

Before you know it, I'm juggling 15 pizzas in my doorway while trying to give the 18 year old delivery boy his $2 tip.

Me: Here you go. Oops. (Three pizzas fall to the ground.)
Him: Cheap prick. (Walks away)

So when Vanessa heard I had settled my dispute with the team fairly simultaneously with the news of my father, "Red" Scott, signing a deal to be one of the TV broadcast analysts doing our games, she was more than a little concerned. I could tell because of her initial reaction:

Vanessa: (Looking me in the eyes) What did you do?
Me: (Sniffing and looking away) What?

I explained my new deal, one that includes a 3 year contract to broadcast the team's games on TV when I'm done playing after next season. She was still concerned.

Vanessa: (Into my eyes) How much?
Me: (Sniffing and looking at my feet. Nice shoes.) Hmm?

I can tell she's mad because she doesn't even get into my choice to not (again) discuss a major family matter with her before pulling the trigger on my decision. Couple that with the new plan (admittedly never thought of before the other day) of Play one more year, Broadcast for three. Translation: I will be living the big league road warrior lifestyle (meaning no home duties like doing dishes, touring colleges with the kids, cleaning out a freezer filled with 13 (I ate two) personal pan pizzas with everything on them) for four more years.

Vanessa's eyes narrow. They beam their red glow so fiercely I feel like I'm staring straight into a laser. I reach for a CD. Calmly, yet firmly, she asks, "What about the $9 million?"

There's a famous photograph I've seen in art shops of a lone lighthouse situated on a tiny rocky island, which is not much bigger than the lighthouse itself. It's the middle of a storm and a giant, terrible wave is striking the lighthouse nearly two-thirds of the way up its side. It's fascinating to look at. You can't help but think, "I'd hate to be that lighthouse."

Vanessa has been aiming her laser beam eyes at me for a good ten seconds now. With the patience and maturity of a medieval barber, she waits for me to swallow a bite that had sausage, onions, mushrooms and pepperoni (only 12 left in the freezer now). It doesn't go down well. As she hands me a glass full of water, I realize I am the lighthouse.

I take in a breath to explain how our income projection for the coming baseball season will have to be revised when Julia, guitar in hand, enters the kitchen. One look at her parents is all she needs. She strums a badly played chord and sings, "What did Dad do now?"

She races away before Vanessa can reach her with a wooden spoon. Then, attention (unfortunately) back on me:

Vanessa: The money's gone, isn't it?
Me: Yes.
Vanessa: I understand.

Left alone in the kitchen, I can't help but contemplate what life will be like for Vanessa and me after the next four years run out. Chances are, until then somebody's going to like me not being around all the time. As upset as she is with me, Vanessa knows that with the money I've given up, I've just bought us four more years of marriage.